


all your pretty colours on canvas

by everydaybicon



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, Mostly Fluff, Painting, Smut, Smut Tease, artist!judy, but sexy fluff?, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everydaybicon/pseuds/everydaybicon
Summary: "Let me paint you."
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 27
Kudos: 77





	all your pretty colours on canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'm still obsessed with Portrait of a Lady on Fire. Maybe I think Judy would be too.

She loved her like this.

Pale skin flushed a deep shade of rose, lips slightly swollen and eyes blown wide with want, golden hair falling in waves around delicately freckled shoulders—Judy always found herself wanting to capture it somehow, to hold that sight for a moment longer, for a lifetime really. She could feed on it indefinitely, her very own loaves and fish, though somehow immensely, exceedingly more divine.

In the warm lamplight of the guesthouse, Jen’s skin glowed golden too, and she was like one of those angels from the old book, the ones old ladies who ran group homes hung pictures of over their beds, as though having wings spread over them meant they’d earn favour in sleep, that they’d garner some sort of protection. 

With their yellow hair and snowy white skin, blushing lips drawn into careful smiles, those angels’ clear eyes always held something in them—a caution maybe, a warning.

Judy remembered eyeing those angels, finding terror and comfort together. In those days, she’d been unable to look away, something like guilt holding her there, something like fear keeping her swaying in those bedroom doorways, shifting from foot to foot, watching, searching, hoping that one day they’d might find her worthy of saving. The eyes in the pictures had never seemed especially merciful. 

But it was different now; her new angel’s eyes were far more than forgiving.

Those had just been pictures, but Jen, she was for real. She was real, and whole, and so much so much more striking, her eyes so much clearer, infinitely more intense. They could be cold too, if she needed them to be, but even then the severity only made her more beautiful, the icy green always luminescent, even in the evenings, even after dark.

If Judy were sunshine than Jen was the moon, her light more delicate but still persisting, still true—her glow somehow reliant on Judy’s presence beside her, on her reflection—she fed off of Judy too. 

And in moments like these, when their bodies danced together under the cover of night, under the cover of the guesthouse’s sheets—lips, tongues, fingers, hips, whispers of love and adoration—it was clear that together they could rule the days and the nights, drawing from one another what was needed to alight a path that gleamed with new beginnings. 

And it was so beautiful, this dance they did, the searching, the touches, the wanton looks between breaths. 

It was a forever kind of feeling, and Judy ached for it each and every evening. 

Now, panting and gasping and desperate for more, the taste of Jen still on her tongue, she wanted to hold the sensation forever, to bottle it up and wear it hung round her neck—she wished that she could bathe in it.

She pulled her lips from Jen’s burning skin, drinking in her moon. 

Skin, hair, lips, eyes. 

White, gold, pink, green. 

She would make such a pretty picture.

She reached to brush a few strands out of Jen’s face, pushing damp gold away from her forehead, kissing the drops of liquid that beaded there, proof of her triumph, proof of her will to be ravished, her persistence. 

She loved Jen like this.

“Let me paint you,” she breathed.

She was fucking exquisite. 

“Now?” Jen exhaled, her breath tickling Judy’s nose.

“Now.” It was less of a desire now, more of a need. “Please.”

Judy leaned in just once more, pressing her lips against Jen’s long and lingering, not waiting for an answer, not able to. 

She pulled back, swinging her leg up and off of Jen’s hips, her shifting weight making the mattress creak as she stood, rushing across the room and grabbing fistfuls of supplies, dragging her easel out in front of the bed, the cool air on her naked body reminding her to reach for her smock—an old dress shirt of Jen’s that had a few missing buttons—she remembered the night that they’d popped.

She pulled on the pale blue fabric, now dotted with smears of red and yellow ochre, stained from trials of ripe fruits and Laguna sunsets. Judy hadn’t painted the little girls for months now, she hadn’t wanted to. 

Now was her chance with Siddal. 

She rolled up the sleeves of her smock, not bothering to fasten the buttons that remained, and pulled a stool in front of her primed canvas, grateful she’d had the foresight for prep in case of a sudden burst of muse. 

She could feel Jen watching her as she selected her brushes, as she squeezed paint onto her palette. This too was a dance, one she knew well—cadmium yellow, cadmium red, burnt sienna, ultramarine blue. 

She reached for titanium white, the crowning jewel of the lot, (without it, there’d be no moonlight at all) sneaking a glance over her canvas at the woman on the bed, wrapped up in the sheets—they were titanium too.

Jen had gathered the sheets around her, and was propped up on one elbow, watching Judy inquisitively, head cocked to one side as she regarded her with curiosity, brows drawn together, the scar that Judy so loved etched deep under their furrow.

“You’re going to—paint me?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, why?”

“I need to.”

“You—need to,” Jen echoed, as though she were tasting the words, trying to understand what had compelled Judy in the midst of their passion to abandon her side and reach for her paints. “You need to,” she repeated, lowering her voice, amusement playing across her lips, her eyes bright as ever—Judy reached for more white.

“Yes, if that’s okay.”

And then Jen laughed, full and deep, falling back into the pillows and bringing her hands to her face.

“Yeah, I guess that’s okay Jude,” Jen said, her voice muffled behind her hands, and through the gaps Judy could see she was smiling, her own grin spreading as she watched Jen gather herself for a moment before dissolving into another fit of laughter, the sound filling the guesthouse like music. It surrounded Judy and filled her up, and Judy made a mental note to put some lilac into the highlights; lilac was the colour of her laugh. 

“You’ve gotta sit up if I’m gonna even have a chance at getting this right,” Judy said, beginning to mix her colours, her brush working across the smooth wood of her palette, back and forth, over and around, introducing the shades to one another, pondering before adding another drop of blue. “I need to look at you.”

Jen sat up, gathering the sheets around her shoulders, watching Judy’s hands work against her palette for a moment before a look of realization crossed her face. 

“Uh, how much of me?” Jen asked.

“All of you.”

“All of me?” she echoed, gripping the sheets around her a little tighter.

Judy looked up from her palette and nodded, watching as Jen’s expression changed—she wasn’t laughing anymore. 

“You want to paint me _naked_?”

“Oh, now she’s shy.”

“I’m not shy!” Jen retorted. “But what is all this anyway? Where’s this coming from Jude?”

“What do you mean?”

“Jude, you haven’t painted in, like, _months_ , and tonight your tongue’s not even halfway outta my cunt and suddenly you _need_ to pull out the fucking watercolours?”

“They’re acrylics.”

“Judy.”

“Well maybe I just needed some inspiration.”

“Jude, baby, I’ll sit for you if you want me to but can it maybe wait until tomorrow? Let me do my hair or something—let me put on some clothes!”

“No, sorry. That’s not really the point. I want you _just like this_ ,” she smiled. “You look so beautiful when I’m tongue-deep.”

Jen narrowed her eyes. 

“What are the boys gonna think when they find a portrait of their mother’s vagina with your pretty little signature in the corner? Isn’t that like a form of child abuse?”

“You think my signature’s pretty?”

“Jude.”

“They’re not gonna see it. This is just for me.”

“And what about my metaphorical blue balls?”

“Jesus Jen how many more do you want?”

“Well we weren’t done!”

“Oh I know.”

“You know?”

“Think of this as like the world’s most pretentious foreplay.”

“Painting?”

“I saw it in a movie.”

“Oh, there it is.”

“Aw c’mon Jen, let me paint my lover in the throes of passion,” Judy pouted.

“Oh Jesus. Fine. Paint away.”

“Then you’re gonna need to take off the sheet.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be.”

Jen’s eyes darkened.

“Foreplay, huh?” Jen mused. “Well if that’s what we’re doing.”

Judy had been so caught up in her role as the painter that she hadn’t stopped to consider how Jen would behave as the muse. If the mischief in her eyes was any indication, Jen clearly wasn’t about to make it easy for her.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Jen began unravelling herself from the sheets, letting the white fabric fall loosely around her shoulders, down past her breasts and torso, gathering over her thighs. Judy watched as Jen slid out her legs one by one, teasing, her movements deliberate, toes pointed, calves flexed ( _once a dancer_ … as the saying goes). 

It was part of what Judy loved about Jen, part of what she found so intoxicating about her—the careful way she could move her body—her control.

It was a composure she saved for work mostly, part of the poise of a cool and collected realtor that puts clients at ease, that lets them know they’re being taken care of by a real professional. 

At home, she’d adopt that cool carefulness for one reason and for one reason only—to make Judy squirm. 

Her nude body finally free of the sheets, Jen laid herself out on top of them, her gaze aloof, propped up onto her side with one elbow, one leg crossed over the other, her finger tracing delicate patterns on her thigh. 

And Judy felt that familiar prickling up her spine, the sensation that worked its way back down her front and set itself into her core, setting heat there that was hard to ignore. She faltered for a moment with her paint.

“How do you want me to pose?” Jen asked, amusement on her lips, evidently satisfied by the effect she was having on her painter.

Judy raised her eyebrows, trying to keep her expression neutral, to keep her breathing even. The heat between Judy’s legs begged to be appeased, begged to be pacified as she took in the sight in front of her. She bit back the urge to ravish—it was going to be such a beautiful portrait.

Judy set down her palette, and taking her paintbrush between her teeth, approached the bed, padding carefully across the wood in her bare feet, fighting every natural instinct as she closed the distance between them. 

She couldn’t give in—not now, not before she’d even begun. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun.

She reached behind Jen on the bed, angling her body so that Jen could take better stock of her open shirt and exposed legs, leaning herself over Jen as she piled the pillows against the wall just so. And then Jen was reaching up for her, but Judy pretended not to notice, pulling back just in time, Jen’s fingers brushing air instead.

Judy pulled back, gesturing for Jen to sit up and lean back against the pillows, regarding her as clinically as she could muster, fighting the ever-growing heat inside her that called her to reach out, to crawl on top of her, to push Jen’s knees out wide and settle her face between her legs.

She tried to think of how she should arrange her.

She tried to hold it in her mind’s eye, to mentally shift Jen’s limbs into a position that would encapsulate the _feeling of her_ on nights like these. But it was so hard to concentrate, so hard to think now in the language of texture, shade, and light when her mind was pulling her in two—images of all the other things her hands could be doing clouding her vision. She tried to blink back the haze.

She decided just to begin, to let her desire guide her hands, to give in like this just a little; it would help, probably.

She reached out for Jen, who gasped a little as Judy quickly slipped a hand under her thigh, lingering there for a moment, locking eyes as she began to position her, pulling Jen’s leg so that her knee was was turned out to the side, her foot coming to rest against her straight leg’s calve. She motioned for her to shift up a little, and leaned in to move Jen’s hair back over her shoulder, trying to ignore the scent of her shampoo, the lavender and rosemary and faint hint of mint that lingered on her pillow each morning. She let a few strands hang forward over her other shoulder, blonde waves partially obscuring a breast. She ran her hand down Jen’s arm, trailing slowly, Jen’s breath hitching, gooseflesh prickling as Judy’s fingers slid lightly against her skin, and then, tugging softly at her wrist, Judy brought Jen’s arm up behind her head, bending her elbow and settling her head in her palm. 

Judy paused, taking her in before deciding on her next move, eyes flitting back to Jen’s whose expression was serious, waiting, eyes dark and breath baited as she waited for Judy to reach out again, as she let Judy have her way. Judy moved toward her once again, this time her fingers finding Jen’s other hand, fingers curled against the sheets. She lightly gripped her wrist, moving her hand so that it lay on her body, unfurling her fingers first across her stomach, contemplating, eventually settling the hand against Jen’s thigh, knuckles raised and set just so.

It was how she’d most like to devour her.

She stepped back, fighting the pulls of desire inside, the heat that was strong in her belly, forcing herself back to her canvas, back down onto the stool so that she could begin.

She started with her skin.

The flush of her cheeks, the gold in the lamplight, a silvery shine at the tip of her nose. She painted the shadows on her neck, carved out her collarbone, mixing her fluster into her chest with shades of rosy pink. 

She saved some of the pink for the lips, and gestured out Jen’s cupid’s bow, eyes flitting back over the canvas for another look, not that she needed it. She could paint them from memory, could trace them out in her sleep. She only looked because she wanted to. 

Judy’s skin prickled as she rendered out their gentle curve, trying to ignore the memories of their feeling on her body from moments before, their memory ghosting over her chest and down her abdomen. It made her shiver. She brushed lightly against the canvas, trying to steady her wrist as she painted those lips—soft and pink and turned down a little at the corners, even when she smiled.

And she moved down her body, gesturing out the slope of her hips, the bumps of her knuckles, her fingertips waiting by her thigh. Judy’s eyes travelled up, up, flitting up to meet Jen’s and back down again, and then Jen was moving her fingers a little, and Judy tried to ignore it at first, biting the inside of her cheeks to keep her expression cool and steady.

But then Jen was dragging her fingertips higher along her thigh and Judy was trying to make words come out of her mouth, to tell Jen that she wasn’t supposed to move but she was too entranced, too curious to see what was going to happen next. 

And then Jen’s finger was waiting at her entrance and Judy was watching, lowering her paintbrush and salivating as Jen spread her legs just a little bit wider, the evidence of her desire shining in the dim light, and she pushed a finger into her wetness, Judy’s own knees weakening as she watched from her stool. 

Jen was curling her fingers inside her now, and Judy was watching her with an open mouth, watching as she brought her other arm down from where Judy had so carefully placed it, running her fingers lightly across her chest as she continued to swirl into her wetness, letting out a sigh into the quiet room, sliding deeper down into the pillows, still keeping her eyes on Judy’s.

And Judy could hear her blood in her ears, her cheeks warm and her core hot, burning as she watched Jen work, lazily painting the inside of her thighs with her own wetness, and then she was stopping, she was moving off the sheets, standing up from the bed, walking around the canvas to wrap her arms around Judy’s waist from behind, her clean hand trailing up Judy’s stomach, sliding behind her open shirt and over her breast, her thumb brushing lightly against Judy’s nipple, making her shiver. 

“You’re not supposed to—oh—move,” she heard herself whisper, and then Jen was bringing her other hand to Judy’s mouth, her finger pushing at her lips, still wet from when Jen had it dipped inside her, and Judy welcomed it eagerly, letting her slide it in past her lips, tasting Jen on her tongue. “Mmm,” she moaned, gripping Jen’s wrist and holding it there, dragging the finger out slowly so she could savour it longer. 

And then Jen was leaning over her shoulder, her dangling hair tickling Judy’s neck as she pressed her lips into Judy’s temple.

“Finish it tomorrow,” Jen whispered, her breath hot in Judy’s ear. “Come paint me with your tongue.”

And then Judy was up and out of her stool, setting her brush and palette down _somewhere,_ letting Jen lead her back to the bed, falling back on top of her and pushing her legs out wide.

And when she gripped Jen’s thighs and brought her face between them, she realized she still had some paint on her fingers, smudged across her knuckles too, her wrists. There were blue smears already on Jen’s torso, a line of yellow across her hip bone, and to her horror, a streak of pink across the white sheets.

She looked from the mark to Jen, guilt consuming her for ruining what she was sure were some sort of expensive Egyptian cotton, because how could Jen have anything else. She expected her to be angry, or at least a little annoyed, but instead, Jen simply raised an eyebrow, reached to dip her finger in a wet smear still on Judy’s wrist, and with the paint wet on her finger tip, dragged it down Judy’s chest, leaving a long, red mark that trailed across her breast and down her stomach.

Judy looked at Jen, at the mischief in her eyes. She tried to commit the look to memory—she hadn’t had a chance to get to the eyes. She wanted to remember them like this.

They’re sea-glass, a clear green like that of the bottles that people in stories would float out into the ocean, messages of love or desperation carefully wrapped inside. They’re the kind of pea-green perfect that ladies of the past died for, green like the silk tainted with poisons unknown. They can be poison too, Judy thinks, remembering those days, remembering words she wishes she could forget, those eyes cold and pale, the glass sharp, arsenic bared, but she hasn’t seen the poison for a long time now, she knows that she won’t see them like that again, that they’ll only ever be soft pools for her now. They’re lake water, they’re morning dew, they’re waves against rocks, they’re the fog in the moors. They’re deadly, they’re safety, they’re love.

There was going to be paint all over the sheets.

Judy would finish the painting tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the lovely bethchildz and queenC_13 for the all of the encouragement along the way. Sharing writing like this feels so personal, and if it wasn't for their reassurances this fic might've never seen the light of day.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think, comments mean so so much to me!


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